


Punching in a Dream

by Terpischoria



Category: Red vs. Blue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:51:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terpischoria/pseuds/Terpischoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd spent months thinking of nothing else. The highway chase consumed him, replaying it over and over in his mind. But that all stopped when Sigma came to him. Now, all Maine needed to think about was revenge against the one who had silenced him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punching in a Dream

He knew what the end result would be, even as he climbed out of the pod.

Standing in the rebel base courtyard, rolling his shoulders to dispel the stiffness of his orbital-insertion joyride, Maine glowered behind the reflective gilden visor that masked his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken it off. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. Besides, to take it off would mean seeing the raw scar tissue that coiled around his throat like a snake, a constant sneering reminder of what he’d lost. Though he’d never been much of a conversationalist (Wash’s stupid attempts at D’n’M’s had driven him to distraction), speaking had been a fundamental part of what made him human. Now all he could do was growl and snap like a beast.

Now now, Agent Maine, a soothing, mellifluous voice said in his mind. You are so much more than that. Losing your voice was unfortunate, but if we work together, we can overcome any obstacle. The voice was like a balm, soothing his worries. He’d spent many nights awake and lying in his bunk, just listening to his new friend speak, giving him an objective view of things. Sigma made him stop thinking about the highway, the mistakes he’d made, what he could have done better, what he might have done to save his voice. He was focused now.

And, on the subject, I do believe you’ll get your chance.

There he was. Standing stock-still in front of him, shoulders slumped in that “oh-crap” posture that was so familiar to him. He’d seen it on missions, in training, but this was different. This he was going to enjoy. It was-

“-the soldier from the freeway? The one who shot you in the throat?” Sigma’s immolated form had appeared on his shoulder, like a guardian angel. But he didn’t need a damn AI to recognise him.

Yes. It was him. That bastard. That fucker. The sleeveless insurrectionist who fancied himself an ODST, wearing armour like that. Fucking coward. And the other one too, he recognised, the one who had tried to put a knife to Carolina during the freeway chase. The one who-was it her? Their armour, it all looked the same. A headache was building behind his eyes, but he banished it furiously. He felt his hackles rising, the blood pumping, a snarl building in his ravaged throat. Now was not the time to deliberate, or think. That was for schemers like York or Wyoming, or planners like North and Wash.

Now was the time to get mad.

Barely acknowledging Sigma’s encouraging words, he charged headlong at the two rebels like a bull on steroids. He felt the ground give way to his feet, felt an almost absurd surge of power as he closed in on them. The female raised both her pistols, but that wouldn’t save her. He’d rip her in two and toss the carcass into the bay-

The roar of an engine, and a jeep headed his way, blocking his advance. They were trying to run him down. Pathetic. He’d show them what he could do. He was stronger, now, since the freeway incident. Not only had he redoubled his training, he had been given strength enhancements. And of course, Sigma.

As I was saying, Agent Maine, with these special attributes pooled together, nothing is beyond our grasp. Nothing at all.

Before the AI’s tone when he got to talking about the future had creeped him out. Now he felt nothing but angry, vociferous agreement. Nothing would stand in the way.

So when the jeep careered into him, its wheels squealing, he grappled with the bull-bar at the front, grunting with the effort. The vehicle’s engine became almost deafening, as the driver put the pedal to the metal, but it was no use. With a mighty screech, he tore the entire assembly from the front of the jeep and shoved it backwards, causing it to totter backwards on its rear wheels. As a final insult, he planted a kick into the chassis, and watched it fly backwards, knocking the two insurrectionists down on their asses and sending the driver flying. Inside his head, Sigma clapped-or at least, simulated the sound. Excellent work. Now, excuse me while I go confer with your fellow agents. He felt a presence leave his head, and he felt strangely alone. Suddenly, he was worried. Were Wash and York doing alright? The sleeveless one had-

And just as abruptly the compassion left his body and all that was left was rage, pure and absolute. He saw Carolina (a damn good fighter but not as good as Tex, and a bitch besides, sometimes he wondered why he took the bullet for her at all) engage the female rebel, who had gotten back on her feet. Unfortunately, the one with the prosthetic arm interrupted her, meaning Carolina had to fight two on one. He would go to help her, as soon as he was done here. The boss could wait. His vengeance would not.

The bastard, the one who’d shot him, sat up groggily and touched a hand to his helmet, as if checking he was alright. Gave a nod, as if to say: I’m still alive. I’m still in the fight.

Cute. Maine gave a barely audible grunt, and watched the son of a bitch look up. Time to disappoint him. Sure enough, the shoulders slumped again.

Slowly, he cracked his knuckles, with a sound like frozen wood snapping. He tilted his head, once, twice. Revelled in the power he held over his nemesis. I’ve been waiting for this. You and me, pal.

Like an animal, one that’s realised its time is up and soon it’ll be nothing but meat and skin, the bastard threw a punch. Sloppy, undisciplined. On the freeway, that might have been enough to challenge him. Now? It was nothing but a feeble, piss-weak attempt at going down fighting. Maine reached out and grabbed his fist. Gripped it in a vice, listened to it snap, fracture, break. Forced the bastard to his knees. Forced him to look up, where gold met silver, and where he would see himself, one last time, before-

Maine brought back his other fist, and let loose. Strangely enough, he felt the rage dissipate, just for a moment, and he felt almost tranquil. Like he was in a dream. Nonetheless, the final thought he had, before he made contact, was: you’re nothing to me now. Less than nothing. Just dead.

The bastard went flying, his helmet dislodged. He thudded to the ground, body splayed out in the characteristic posture of the dead. His neck resembled a floppy sock like the ones that Wash kept leaving around the barracks. Out of some interest he couldn’t place, Maine walked over and inspected the bare face of his attacker, the one who’d stolen his voice.

A shaved head, chocolate brown eyes, a twisting scar just over his lip, pulling his expression into a perpetual sneer. And best of all, a final look on his face. One of terror, and despair. Things that he longed for. Things that Maine lived for.

He felt something akin to mercury flashing inside his head, then ice cold. And a voice that was even colder than that. He deserved to die more slowly. But congratulations, Agent Maine. You have done well. Now, I believe there are still rebels active in the shipyards?

Grunting his assent, Maine cast eyes to the rooftop where Carolina was doing her dance of death and prepped his grenade launcher, the one that belonged to a species of alien so like himself it almost amused him. There was always something more to kill. Sigma always found something that needed dying.


End file.
